


Loss Ficlet: Bathtub

by missclairebelle



Series: Loss (In Chronological Order) [21]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Makeup Sex, makeup bubble bath, stupid arguments that couples have over nothing and regret immediately
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-28
Updated: 2019-01-28
Packaged: 2019-10-17 23:31:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missclairebelle/pseuds/missclairebelle
Summary: @holdhertightandsayhername: OBVIOUSLY “In a bubble bath you filled for us both”!!! I need this scene in my life. In Scotland, after a long and tiring day? Pretty please 💕From a Tumblr call for prompts before the airing of the S4 finale.





	Loss Ficlet: Bathtub

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HoldHerTightAndSayHerName](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoldHerTightAndSayHerName/gifts).



##  **Loss (Modern AU)  
** **Bathtub  
** **January 2018**

Dark circles under each of our eyes were fortune tellers that laid bare the inevitability of a vicious fight one an early Tuesday morning.

Jamie had plainly not slept well.  His hair was rumpled, shower-damp, and he had the sleep-slackened look of a little boy dragged from bed to make the school bus on time.  

Based on the glimpse I had gotten of myself in the hospital locker room after scraping cancer out of a pelvis with surgeons of four other disciplines for ten and a half hours, I was quite a sight, too.  And that was before I had trudged through Edinburgh’s first true ice storm of the season.

Our matching set of dark circles were better than any clairvoyant.  They telegraphed an undeniable truth that neither of us bothered to listen to.

 _Beyond a kiss hello and sharing of cashew butter toast, a kiss goodbye and a wish for the other to have a good day, we should not have even spoken to each other_.

And so we fought.

Though it was over nothing at all, really, it was my fault and it was our first truly  _stupid_  argument.  

He hadn’t heard me ask him a question over the too-loud television news program he was watching.  In response, I snatched the remote from his fingers and placed myself between in front of the television, punching the mute button almost viciously.

“Ye make a better door than a window,” he said dryly, craning his neck. “I was watchin’ the news ticker.”

“You pretended not to hear me.”  He gave me the even Viking stare of a war commander.  It flipped my stomach ( _mostly because he looked incredibly sexy as his blood pressure spiked_ ), but it did not deter me.  The last thing I was in our relationship was unwilling to stand up to him. “I  _asked_  if it would have been too much of an imposition to offer to come pick me up with the weather.  It’s fucking cold and icy.”

“Have ye heard of Uber, Claire? Christ, it’s six in the morning.  I would’ve had to leave at five to come get ye.  I was up until two working on the campaign for––”

“And  _I_  was up to  _my_  wrists in  _tumors––_ ”

_I knew that I sounded as though I was afflicted by some sort of God complex before I even got the words out, but I didn’t stop ––_

“––all goddamn night when a routine surgery turned into  _whatever that was_.”

For a moment it looked like he was going to rise to the bait and come at me as he should.   _Disgusted that I was implying my job was more important than his_.But his eyebrows knit together before he looked me up and down.  It made my blood boil.  

“Is your patient okay?  I mean, ye’ve no’ been  _irrational_  since Marianne––”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” I muttered, trying to ignore the way he looked down at my wildly gesticulating hand ( _the one with the engagement ring_ ).  I spoke under my breath as I turned (“ _prick_ ”), the lingering aroma of his breakfast making my stomach groan.

He volleyed a responsive hiss ( _one that sounded dangerously close to “wee bitch”_ ).

Reeling on him, I threw the remote overhand into the belly of the couch, and proceeded to ask if he wanted to repeat himself.  

It was like déjà vu.  

Our first fight ( _over fucking IKEA of all things_ ) had started in a very similar way.  

A car ride from hell.  A request for him to repeat whatever it was that he had said ( _over a year gone from the moment I could not remember what I had thought at the time that he said_ ).  A surrender as he declined ( _the sneaking fire of tempers to come later_ ).

But unlike last time in the primary blue and yellow parking lot, Jamie did not back down.  Instead he licked a small half-moon smear of cashew butter off the side of his palm, stood, and smoothed out his slacks with an almost eerie level of calm.  

“I called ye a ‘ _wee bitch_ ,’” he said plainly, tilting his head to the side.  “Because ye’re bein’ hateful.  I didna wake up in time to come get ye. I worked too late, and I’m sorry.”

‘ _Say sorry in return_ ,’ the limited remaining part of my rational mind begged. However, the bits that were strangled of all sense by sleep and stress, the pain in every limb from standing all night won. It was clear from his tone that the last thing he  _actually_  meant was that he was  _sorry_.  And as such, I soldiered on in my effort to be  _right_. “ _So you heard me ask why?_ ”

“ _Obviously_ ,” he mumbled, reaching for the suit coat thrown over the back of the couch.  I bent to pick my sopping snow boots up from the entryway to avoid what would surely become his chosen topic to redirect the argument.  I glared silently, watching him wind a scarf around his neck and daring him to say something about the icy puddle on the floor.  He didn’t say anything other than, “Ye should get somethin’ to eat and go to bed.  I willna be home until later –– partners’ dinner.”

He was out the door before I could spit another word in his general direction.  Dropping the boots, I hurried to the front door and watched through the peephole as he rounded the corner to the stairs and flew down them.

Thirty seconds later, a text.

_I made you soft boiled eggs.  Check the refrigerator.  There is bread in the toaster, just press the plunger._

Swallowing a hard, aching lump in my throat, I opened the refrigerator, and removed the cereal bowl with two still-warm eggs in it. Nothing could have made me hate myself more when I saw the sticky note on the toaster “ _toast to get you toasty warm for bed_.”

As the toast went to the near-charred state that I preferred, I texted him back.

_I’m sorry. I was cranky.  Plainly I need a nap. A redo later?_

I ate my breakfast over the sink –– yolk dripping over my fingers from the perfectly done eggs and almost black crumbs falling onto my sweater like snow.  

Three terse syllables via SMS helped lull me to sleep:

_Yes, later._

And then I slept in the bed that still held the warm imprint of his slumbering body.

It was well after seven o’clock when I heard him come in.

He called my name and I quickly rose from the edge of the bed and darted into the bathroom.  Before stripping naked and shoving my clothes into the hamper, I turned the tap on full, watched the water fizz an almost foolish shade of lavender with the introduction of a fistful of my favorite bath salts.

My name echoed down the hallway over the sound of his footsteps. And then he was in our bedroom, not quite sounding worried, but confused when he called, “Sassenach?”

“Bathroom,” I called in my best approximation of an apologetic-meets-sexy tone.  

“Oh Christ,” he mumbled, fingers working loose the knot in his tie. “What are ye doing?”

“I’m your Venus de Milo, standing on her seashell.”  I tilted my head to the side, smirking.  

“Venus de Milo is a  _statue_.”

“Really?” I asked, incredulous at the nitpicking in his response, not seeking clarification.  

“Ye’re thinking of the Birth of Venus, I think.  The  _painting_.”  His gaze strayed from my face for the first time, down over my shoulders, my breasts, stomach, hips, down to the foam rising around my knees.  “If ye’re thinkin’ of the painting, ye’ve done a bonnie job recreating it..”

“It’s an  _apology_ , Jamie.”

He looked at me a little skeptically.  “Oh aye?  _For_?”

Licking my lips, I nodded, prepared to eat a little bit of crow.  “For being a little…  _aggressive_  with you this morning.”

“Aggressive?” he echoed, face bemused.  He took a step forward, and I took the opportunity to begin work on his belt.

“Aggressive.   _Unreasonable_.”

“Ye came in lookin’ for a fight.”

Nodding, I flicked the button on his pants open and pulled his shirt free from its careful tuck.

“And I rose to the challenge, Claire.”

Leaning forward, I kissed the line of his jaw.  Reciprocal apologies made in tandem trampled over one another ( _“I’m so sorry” mixing with “I’m so verra sorry”_ ).  It was the end of it, the simple words accepted in the same moment that they met oxygen.  

“I filled a bubble bath for the two of us to say  _sorry_. To try andwarm you up figuratively.”

“Tell me one thing.”

Running a hand along the zipper of his pants, I did my best approximation of a purr. “What’s that?”

“Is this an indict on my personal hygiene?”

“ _Plainly_.” I knotted my hand into the slightly snow-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Now  _strip_ , Fraser.”

His eyes positively sparkled as he hopped backwards on one foot, cursing and attempting to strip his socks off.  Item by item, he gave in to my request.

Pants.

Cufflinks.

Buttondown.

Undershirt.

Watch.

Boxers.

And then he was in the tub, our knees knocking together as his hands fondled for my arse as I squealed.  He lifted me, hand slipping as he attempted to lower us into the water and hissing “ _ifrinn_ ” before drawing us back up to standing height.

He tried again, lowering himself into the water with a firm grip on my hand. Once submerged, he looked up at me and tugged a little.  _“_ All I want to do is to fuck away that senseless argument, and I canna even get ye in the tub properly.”

I went to my knees between his legs, an entire sea of water rising and falling over the edge of the tub. As I flopped inelegantly into his chest and sealed my lips to his throat, I realized that I couldn’t have cared less.


End file.
